The Vampire's Gift
by RukiLex
Summary: He rescued her from a life of poverty and pain, but she is dying, nonetheless.  How much is he willing to offer her and what price will she pay for the vampire's gift?  HitsuKarin.  Kiriban for Ryfee. One-shot. AU, slightly OOC.  Dark fluffiness abounds.


**The Vampire's Gift**

**By RukiLex**

**Authors' Note****: ****This one-shot is written for Ryfee, who won the kiriban for my story, "Twin Moons." Ryfee suggested the song "Oblivion" as inspiration for a HitsuKarin (or TouRin) fic. The result is AU, a bit OOC for Karin, and a totally self-indulgent Victorian/gothic romance. I tried to play a bit with the narrative of the story, to give it the feel of a Victorian novel, with florid language and lots of mood-setting descriptions. The end result is a bit different from my usual style of mostly dialogue, but I hope you'll like it, all the same! Congrats again, Ryfee and thanks for letting me indulge my over-the-top romantic side. Is dark fluff chocolate mousse? Something to ponder.**

**Pairings: HitsuKarin (or as Ryfee puts it, "TouRin") **

**Disclaimers: The story is mine, but the characters belong to and are from the incredible imagination of the manga god Kubo Tite. **

**

* * *

**

**In the night  
Like a dream of midday shadows  
I'm sure we shall fall  
Toward the light**

**The truth is that ever since  
I realized I could fly in the sky  
I've been too afraid to flap my wings,  
and I've forgotten the wind**

**oblivious**

**Where are we headed?**

**oblivious**

**In the night  
I'm sure we shall fall  
Toward the light  
we go further in the destiny…**

**Someday, with you  
Night, morning, afternoon,  
time, wind**

**oblivious**

**Stay close to me  
Look, a silent love begins  
Someday we will shiver  
As we head toward our future**

**oblivious**

**Where are we headed?  
We flee into the distance  
underneath the water  
What a beautiful voice  
Sing aloud  
Our future" - _Oblivious, by Kalafina

* * *

_**

**Victorian England, circa 1859:**

He watched her from the second row, the young woman in the long, blue gown with the voice of an angel. Her pale skin glowed under the harsh lights of the stage, a delicate diamond choker reflecting tiny bits of light to complete the effect. The sophisticated woman who had charmed English audiences was a far cry from the starving waif of a child whom he had rescued from a London workhouse only five years before.

The audience erupted into applause and he slipped out of his seat, striding confidently to the nearest exit. An usher, recognizing him, opened the door.

"Lord Hitsugaya," he said, bowing slightly.

He said nothing in response, but walked down the dimly lit hallway, back to the dressing rooms. He would wait here for her, eschewing the admiring crowds. It had always been this way; he needed no one other than her.

* * *

He had met her five years before – he, the nobleman, purchasing a bouquet of flowers to appease his latest conquest; she, a street urchin, helping the vendor, undoubtedly sent from the orphanage to pay off her family's debt. It was hard to say whose was the more miserable existence, despite the obvious outward trappings of wealth that he had about him.

For Hitsugaya Toushirou, the day to day life of London nobility was simply a veil cast over what had always been. He would never belong to their world: he who preyed on their vulnerabilities; who survived on their weak bodies; who detested the urge to consume their feeble existences but did so, nonetheless, in order to survive. He despised what he was, but he could no more change that than die, for he was immortal and he was alone.

Kurosaki Karin. She had been coarse, a tomboy, born of a surgeon father and a noblewoman who had forsaken her birthright to marry beneath her station. But her mother had died young and her father had been sent to war in Russia, leaving behind a son and twin daughters to fend for themselves. The son had signed on to a ship bound for the Americas, the other daughter finding work as a servant in a wealthy household. But Karin, always independent and headstrong, had refused to seek work, instead surviving on her own until she was caught by a particularly unsympathetic bobby who had seen fit to send her to the workhouse for stealing a loaf of bread to feed herself.

Hitsugaya had been immediately struck by Karin's strength of spirit. To him, a soul was a thing of beauty to be appreciated and – sometimes – to be devoured. She had been singing, even as she was surrounded by the filth of the street. Without any food in her belly, she still found the strength to endure without complaint. He immediately hungered for her with such an intensity as he had not experienced in nearly a millennia.

He had taken it upon himself to speak to the matron of the orphanage, paying off the Kurosaki family debt and purchasing her, ostensibly to serve him in his own house. In truth, he had no intention of using her as a servant. He would bring her to his home, feed her well, then devour her, body and soul. But when he had clothed and fed her, he found he could not kill her, although he could not understand himself why he had spared her miserable life.

Five years later, she was still alive – now a beautiful young woman of nineteen who still, on occasion, ran through the streets of London in trousers, her hair tucked beneath a boy's cap. Her father had returned from the front, her sister now tended to their father in a modest house, her brother was an officer in the Royal Navy. And despite her obvious beauty, and his growing love for her, Hitsugaya had never so much as touched her, afraid that if he did, he would not be able to contain himself. No, he would wait for her, until it was time.

But there was one thing he could not ransom her from – the scourge of the dirty London streets and of the dark, dank institutions in which she had lived. Time was running short. For both of them.

* * *

"Toushirou!" she laughed, running to kiss him on the cheek from the dressing room door. "I've missed you, you know. I wish you would have taken me to St. Petersburg with you."

"If I had allowed you to cancel the performance tonight," Hitsugaya replied, distinctly uncomfortable to feel her lips against his skin, "the Queen herself would have had my head."

She paled slightly, taking a delicate handkerchief from beneath her sleeve and coughing into it. He eyed her warily, the scent of blood on the air.

"_It will not be long now,_" he thought sadly, noting the more pronounced shadows beneath her warm brown eyes and the slight dullness to her normally shiny hair.

"You haven't been eating," he chastised kindly.

"Rangiku has been stuffing me full of sweets these past six weeks," she retorted, with a hint of boyish irritation. "My sister has been sending me homemade meat pies and sweetbreads. I'm just not very hungry."

She coughed again, turning away from him, ashamed. She didn't want him to see the blood on handkerchief.

"Let's go home," he said with a smile, picking up her velvet cloak and draping it over her shoulders. "I am tired of traveling."

* * *

The townhouse was brightly lit and warmly furnished. The auburn-haired woman who met them at the front door looked relieved to see him, as if the past six weeks had weighed nearly as heavily on her as on him.

"Lord Hitsugaya," said Matsumoto Rangiku, "it is so good to have you back." When Karin left the vestibule and began to climb the stairs to her bedroom, Rangiku looked at Hitsugaya, her eyes deeply concerned.

"_She knows it, too,"_ he thought vaguely, wondering if she had sensed Karin's impending death just as he did.

He did not acknowledge the other woman's concern, instead handing her his cloak and motioning to his manservant to gather his bags from the coach waiting outside. "Make me some hot tea," was all he said, taking a seat in the living room and warming his hands by the fire.

For months now, his hands and feet had been cold – a telltale sign of his impending sleep. For centuries, he had looked forward to the sleep as respite from his painful existence. But now… Now, he regretted that it would come, the hundred-year sleep. And he knew it would come before her last breath, a moment he had so wanted to share with her.

The tea finished, the fire dying, Hitsugaya headed up the large staircase and down the long hallway to his rooms. A fire had been lit by his bed. His manservant waited for him with his nightclothes, but he dismissed the man. Tonight, he wanted to be alone. He needed to think, to prepare himself for what lay ahead.

He took off his heavy jacket, leaving only his shirt and heavy vest. He walked over to the fire and watched the flames dance there for several minutes, letting his mind wander to happier times. He heard her voice, saw her youthful, healthy face flushed from gallivanting about in the park after a lazy picnic luncheon on the grass.

"_Karin,"_ he thought, with a pang of regret, _"we should have had a lifetime…"_

He absentmindedly unbuttoned his vest, tossing it aside onto one of the chairs and untying his jabot. He loosened the ties on his shirt. He had never appreciated the Victorian fondness for high collars and heavy fabrics – it had always been too pretentious for his taste. He preferred the simpler, looser clothes of times long gone, when status and money had little to do with one's place in society. As it was, there were whispers about the young nobleman who lived with wild girl with an angel's voice. He laughed softly to think that, had it not been for fate, he would probably have had to marry Karin. But time had run short and there would be no need to make of her an 'honest woman'.

He sighed and walked over to the bed, removing his shoes and socks, and leaning back onto the overstuffed mattress. There was a soft knock on the door.

"Come," he said, thinking it was butler returning to insist that he be permitted to assist his master in changing. It was not. "What are you doing here?" he demanded, a bit too harshly.

She scowled at him, and he could not help but notice how thin her nightgown appeared in the lamplight. "I couldn't sleep," she retorted, having dropped all semblance of the sophisticated diva for her more familiar manner.

"I'll have Rangiku make you some tea," he said, standing up and walking to the door.

"Don't go," she said, her hand on his arm, holding him back.

Her face was, if possible, even paler than before. He guessed she had been coughing; he could smell blood on her lips. A wave of desire surged within him, although he found it difficult to distinguish his need for her as a woman from his need for her life force, her soul. He pulled abruptly away from her.

"_You decided long ago that you would not harm her,"_ he reminded himself, as he quickly put some distance between them. _"You swore you would not consume her, body and soul, the way you did the others."_

"Do you find me repulsive, Toushirou?" she asked, the expression on her face a mixture of desire and genuine confusion.

"No," he replied simply. "We've been through this before. You are an unmarried woman. It would be inappropriate for me to…"

Her laughter caught him by surprise. "I know you well enough to know what you think of polite society," she said, a challenge in her dark eyes. "You've never cared about what others say."

"It would be wrong for me to take advantage of you," he answered, turning back towards the fire so as not to be further tempted by her smell.

"Do you prefer men?" she ventured, undaunted.

"No," he nearly laughed. He wanted _her._ "You are quite beautiful, Karin. I would be very fortunate to…"

"Is it because I am ill, then?" she asked, cutting across him. She walked over to him, her sheer cotton nightdress fluttering about her body.

"Of course not," he replied. Consumption would not fell a vampire. But love…

"I don't have long to live, do I?" she asked, her voice belying no particular emotion. It was simply a statement.

"No," he answered honestly.

She wrapped her arms around him from behind, resting her hands on his chest. Several fingers found his skin through the open front of his shirt. Her smell was overwhelming, intoxicating, her touch temptation itself.

"I don't want to die alone," she said, her lips by his neck now. "I want to feel all that life has to offer. I want to love you, Toushirou."

"I can't…," he began, his voice trailing off as she kissed him boldly below the ear.

"Why?" she asked, undaunted. "Tell me. Give me a good reason, and I will leave you to yourself."

He hesitated. In all the millennia he had lived, he had never told a human soul of the truth of his existence.

"What secret do you hide, Hitsugaya Toushirou?" she pressed, taking one hand and gently caressing his white hair. The touch made him dizzy, and he felt his hunger for her grow. "Why do you not share your loneliness?"

Again, he said nothing, closing his eyes and trying to regain his self-control.

"Your secret will die with me," she whispered softly, pressing her lips against his skin once more. Her blood scent permeated his nostrils, mingling with the soft perfume of her, familiar and enticing. "I am no longer the child you pulled from the streets, Toushirou. I love you. I have since the first time I saw you."

She walked in front of him and, taking his face between her hands, kissed him on the lips. He gasped, unprepared for the effect she had upon him. _"I have been so lonely,"_ he thought sadly. There had been others, but none of them had made him feel like this – alive. Almost human.

He pulled her against him, returning her kiss with unbridled hunger, his body responding to hers. "I don't deserve this," he whispered, the words tumbling from his lips unbidden. "I have done such evil…"

"Shhhh," she said, silencing him with her lips. "Whatever you have done, I have already forgiven it." She stepped back from him and placed her hand over his heart. "Your heart is true, Toushirou. Whatever evil you have committed, I know there must have been a reason for it. Please, Toushirou, I know you want this. I can feel it in your soul."

These words cut him to the core, and he stared at her, bewildered. She smiled back at him. "I have always known you were different," she said, to his surprise. "I could sense it from the moment I laid eyes on you. I have felt the turmoil in your heart, felt your hunger and your pain."

"Karin," he whispered, "I am not what you think. I am not…human."

Her answer was to kiss him once more with such tenderness that he nearly moaned at the bittersweet pain of it. "I know," she replied, looking up into his turquoise eyes, "and I don't care. I have known it since we first met. Please, Toushirou, don't push me away."

With these words, he lost all semblance of control and kissed her deeply, tasting her mouth and the hint of blood that still lingered there. Her body felt so fragile - so _human_ - in his arms, that he felt his hunger for her explode. "I am a demonic thing, Karin," he said, his voice filled with guilt and regret. "I thrive upon the blood of those weaker than I. I am vile, unredeemable. I cannot die."

"You are kind, Toushirou," she replied, looking into his face and smiling warmly. "That you feel guilt for your existence is only more proof of it. How lonely it must be for you, to live forever alone, berating yourself for something over which you have no control."

She pulled his shirt off of him, running her soft fingers across his chest, eliciting renewed gasps and shudders. It had never been like this before and he, who had sworn he would never create another being in his image, began to waiver; he began to see the possibilities of an existence where loneliness was not the norm.

"I love you, Karin," he whispered, as her nightgown fell off her shoulders and fluttered soundlessly to the floor.

"I will give you as long as I have," she replied, as he reveled in the softness of her skin against his.

He led her to the bed and laid her down upon the covers. He ran his fingers gently over her body, noting with sadness how frail she had become. What had once been catlike muscle was now skin and bone and he worried that if he held her too tightly, she might break.

In the dim, orange light of the fire, she looked fairly ethereal, like the wisps of flame that danced on the wood. She moaned as he kissed her once more, his lips tracing the line of her jaw, his tongue tasting the faint saltiness of her skin. His lips lingered on her neck, feeling the soft pulse of blood there.

"_If you wait, you will sleep and she will die," _he thought, even as their bodies joined and she cried out for him. There would be no one to wait for him on the other side of the long sleep; indeed, there had never been, for he had always awoken alone.

"I can give you more time," he whispered, as he held her afterwards, her body warm against his own. "I can give you back your vitality. But I must sleep – I will not be there to protect you." She did not hear, for she had already fallen asleep, the effort of making love to him having drained her of what little energy she still possessed.

He laid her back on the bed and picked up her thin nightgown, dressing her in it and watching her sleep for several hours, watching the soft rise and fall of her breath. From time to time, he could hear the rasp of disease in her breathing and he feared that her heart would not hold out much longer. The fire crackled and began to die.

He could feel the ache of exhaustion in his muscles, feel his vision begin to cloud. How ironic, that a being who lived for eternity could, nevertheless, not avoid the long slumber. If he waited, he could have a week more, perhaps even two at her side. But even as he watched her sleep he knew _she_ did not have even that long. He stood up once more and dressed in his shirt and trousers.

"_What is a hundred years, if you know she will live?"_ He wondered if she would remember him, whether she would have found another lover by the time he regained his senses. Perhaps it was folly to think that he could have her at all, in the end.

"_Is this about you?"_ he wondered sadly, as he watched her sleep. _"Or do you wish to give to give her life because you love her?"_

He walked over to the chair and pulled a small box from the pocket of his coat. Inside was a delicate gold ring with a perfect blue diamond set amongst swirls of filigree. Tiny diamonds glittered like ice around the band. He had meant to give it to her in the morning, a gift from his trip abroad. He gently removed it from the box and slipped it onto her finger. She did not stir and, for a moment, he despaired that he had waited too long. But then she breathed once more and he felt a rush of relief.

He took her gently in his arms and walked over to the fire. He knelt there, holding her fragile body. It felt weightless, featherlike. He brushed the hair from her pale neck and kissed her skin, his lips lingering there once more. He whispered her name softly and then, with all the self-control he could muster, he bit her gently so as not to tear her beautiful skin. For a moment, he pulled away, watching two drops of ruby blood grow there, inhaling the heady fragrance of it. Then, closing his eyes, he began to drink her blood.

Images of joyful moments spent at her father's side mingled with images far more painful – of nights spent with nothing but the ache of emptiness in her stomach, of the times when she had fought off the advances of the headmaster of the orphanage, and of the loss at being separated from her beloved family. He felt her joy at their ultimate reunion, her sense of relief that her father was safe, that her sister would care for him, and pride in the path that her brother had chosen to pursue. He experienced the warmth of her feelings for him, felt her growing love and fear that she would not live to see that love consummated. He saw himself in her eyes only hours before, as their bodies had become one. He felt her heart cease to beat, and felt her soul cling to the shell of her body.

He withdrew his lips from her neck and put them to his own wrist, tearing at the skin there until crimson bloomed fully. He sucked the blood from his wrist, allowing it to linger in his mouth and, when his mouth could hold no more, he kissed her, allowing the blood to flow freely from his lips to hers. He sensed her still heart begin to beat once more, as her strength began to grow. And, with each moment, he felt weaker.

"_There is no time left,"_ he thought, struggling to stand up. He walked over to the small writing desk by the bed and pulled out a piece of parchment. He had prepared the will months before, in anticipation of his sleep, wanting her to know no poverty when he could no longer provide for her. Now, it would be his legacy. She would want for nothing. He dipped the quill in the jar of black ink, signed his name to the paper and placed it in his pocket.

He glanced back at the bed one last time, then turned the knob of the door and walked softly out into the hallway and down the stairs to the kitchens. Rangiku was folding the newly-pressed linens. She looked up and smiled at him.

"It is time," he said, struggling to keep standing. Rangiku said nothing, but took his arm to steady him. "Please," he said, his voice barely a whisper. "See to it that the solicitor gets this." He took the parchment from his pocket and handed it to her. "And please, Rangiku, see to it that she is well-cared for while I am gone."

"Of course," Rangiku said, leading him down the stairs to the basement and the catacombs below.

She laid him on the cold, marble slab set out in the center of the smallest and most protected of the caverns, smoothing his hair gently with her hand as she had done many times before. He smiled up at her. "I couldn't let her die, Rangiku," he said, as his eyelids grew heavy.

"I know," Rangiku replied softly, "and I am glad. I have grown to love her, too."

He said nothing, but squeezed her hand gently. _"I am fortunate, after all," _he thought, as oblivion claimed him.

* * *

**Tokyo, circa 2010:**

She walked quickly across the university campus, her heavy backpack slung loosely over her left shoulder. She wore jeans and a simple, oversized sweater, her dark hair blowing about her face as the wind picked up. It was nearly dark outside and drops of rain had begun to fall. Winter was coming; the weather reminded her of England, cool and damp. She pushed the hair from her eyes, her gaze falling upon the gold ring that she wore on her right hand.

She turned into the doorway of the building that housed the history department, pulling a paper from her pack as soon as she was underneath the awning. She was pleased to be turning it in a day early – she'd be able to spend an extra day in Karakura with her family. Ichigo had flown in on his personal jet from Sapporo for a week's stay the day before and Yuzu had been working feverishly on a meal fit for a king, doing her best to keep Isshin busy at the clinic so he wouldn't interfere.

"_Some things really don't change,"_ she thought, with a smile.

Voices filtered into the empty hallway from some of the rooms – students meeting with professors to discuss projects and review the day's lectures. She poked her head into one of the offices.

"Professor Takamoto," she said brightly. "I'm dropping off my paper a little early."

"Heading to Karakura?" the older man with the salt and pepper hair asked, amiably.

"Yes," she said, with a smile. "I'll be back on Monday morning."

"I've asked for you to be my graduate assistant next year," said Takamoto, with a smile. "I was hoping that since you planned on staying here for your graduate work, you might be interested."

"I'd love to," Karin replied. "Thank you, sir."

Karin turned to go.

"Karin-chan?"

"Yes?"

"I'd like you to meet the new European History professor," said Takamoto, standing up. "Just started yesterday. New blood. Young, too. Taking over from Professor Hastings, who is retiring and will be leaving for England this week."

They walked out of the office and down the hallway, to one of the smaller offices near the back entrance. Boxes were stacked almost to the ceiling, making it impossible to make out the desk or its occupant from the doorway. Takamoto squeezed past the boxes with Karin in tow.

"Sorry about the mess," came a voice from behind the wall of corrugated cardboard. "It seems the moving company packs things, but won't unpack them."

"I've got just the person to help," Takamoto offered, smiling at Karin. She grinned back at him.

"I've got a few hours before I'm leaving," she said, as they made it around the last of the boxes.

"Good," said the man at the desk, standing up and smiling at Takamoto.

"Kurosaki Karin," said Takamoto, "this is Hitsugaya Toushirou, our newest professor. Karin is one of my best students, Hitsugaya-san," he added, with a grin. "She'll be staying on next year to do her graduate work here."

Karin took a deep breath and said, "It is a pleasure to meet you, Hitsugaya-san."

"The pleasure is all mine," Hitsugaya replied formally, with a slight bow.

"I'll leave you two to the unpacking then," Takamoto said, backing out of the office gingerly. "This task is best left to the young."

Karin waited until Takamoto's footfalls were heard in the corridor once more, watching where he had left, almost afraid to look at the man standing behind the desk.

"When did you…?" she began finally, unsure of what to say.

"About a month ago," he replied. "I had to wrap up a few things in London before heading here."

"I've missed you," she said, realizing that her hand was trembling.

He walked out from behind the desk and she thought to herself how strange he looked, dressed in jeans and a t-shirt. He looked younger, more relaxed.

"Takamoto tells me that you are unmarried," he said, slightly stiffly, afraid to ask the question that burned on his lips.

She smiled. "I've been waiting for you, Toushirou," she said, reaching her hands out to him. He walked the several steps that separated them slowly, as if he were unsure of her gesture.

"You don't hate me?" he asked, stopping only inches away from her.

"Hate you?" she asked, surprised. "For someone so old," she said, "you understand little about a woman's heart."

He laughed softly as he took her in his arms. "Apparently," he said, "I never understood at all."

* * *

**Author's Note: Yes, artistic license with the "100 year sleep" - it isn't exactly 100 years, but varies each time. And thanks to readers that caught my typo - the date was supposed to be 1859, NOT 1959! The war in question was the Crimean War between England and Russia. -Lex**


End file.
